Existence

Life's cycle knows the value of recycling, nothing is wasted. My wasteland, a mere insignificant outpost, my fragmented soul snowflakes on a winter night. Little reassurance lies in the fact that at some point nature may find a use for our physical remains,  returning them to whence we came, as dust returning to the earth. Despite life's conflicts and afflictions, aspirations and disappointments, that this end could somehow validate our existence as a fruit for the earth to kinder. What of the essence of my conscious being that remained yet to be proven to humanity. What promise did humanity have in store when all was said and done ? Better we do it for ourselves, for the joy of the act itself, but without recognition the act was incomplete. I was at odds to invest knowing the miserable plight of creative spirits who over centuries contributed to the brilliance of our cultural civilisation without return. On the other hand Mother Nature demanded the simplist of accomplishments, to live, reproduce and to die. Being human seemed to complicate this physical destiny, for some of us who seeked more than to fulfill this simple design shared by other species in the animal kingdom, wise enough to accept in the full merit of happiness.
 My conflicts in this broader context were no more than manifestations of my experiences, the distraction of the ruse. While their effect on the long phase of my life had very little influence on my natural outcome the tremor was immediate and forthwith at times in destablising shocks. Impressions, emotional pitfalls, expressed and reclaimed we take our falls and failings, sometimes alone, sometimes unwilling to resurface pervaded by fears. Trusting in others the virtue of forgiveness and forgetfulness keep us linked to those we shouldn't be.
Time was being compressed, I was weary. In silenced abandon to the wayside I surveyed each step taken, unable to identify where I was, the path lay before me longwinding without beginning or end. I had neither the urge to go forward nor back. Nothing seemed to count anymore. The exterior human world preyed on my confidence. I had been too optimistic, too ready to believe, my kindness a failing, only to discover  a world more unforgiving than nature herself. My presence was to be capitalised but not quantified. To exist without proof was not enough. Without proving the worthiness of our existence we are of no more value to this society than a dead worm that didn't get to be a butterfly. Without the acceptable props we have no place. Such is the inhumain side of being human in a civilised world.